


i got only good intentions (so give me your attention)

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Drunk Texting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Love Confessions, Modern Westeros, POV Sansa, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, and also run-ons, because this is just an excuse for jon to go down on sansa, everything is italics, she's so thirsty she deserves it, this is who i am but at least i'm self-aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 05:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: inspired by ang’s (@recklessflyboi) thirst for a jonsa fic based on this song, and this chat post by @porcelainsansa on tumblr:Sansa: I am sorry, I just sneezed and liked your post by accident.Jon: And commented “damn daddy” on all my selfies?Sansa: I have the flu.(title from “ruin the friendship,” by demi lovato)





	i got only good intentions (so give me your attention)

**ARYA** : i would like it stated, for the record, that i tried to take your phone away from you to prevent what i now understand to be an inevitability

 **ARYA** : clearly destiny and an overindulgence of pina colada have the combined power to turn you into a dumbass

 **ARYA** : but you’ll probably get laid now so i guess it’s for the best. i just dread your existential hangover crisis beforehand

 **ARYA** : in fact i’m blocking your number to avoid your barrage of texts tomorrow morning. from now on we’ll just be those aloof, emotionally distant sisters who only see each other once a year during a very tense christmas dinner

 **ARYA** : and then one year after some earth-shattering family tragedy we’re forced to face our demons and then christmas dinner is ruined because of all the accusations and crying and mum’s the only one who stays calm, just sitting at the head of the table with a glass of like sherry or some shit and one of those really long cigarettes, looking dispassionately into the distance as her children air all their dirty laundry at last

 **ARYA** : meanwhile dad’s in the other room, watching telly with the sound off and robb’s actually been dead for ten years. rickon’s been a figment of bran’s imagination this whole time. gendry and i haven’t slept together in six months. jon comes home from the war to find that you’ve had his illegitimate baby. and then like the baby grows up and sells the film rights and makes millions off our family drama

 **ARYA** : i should write a play

 **ARYA** : fuck maybe i’m drunk too

It takes Sansa several minutes to comprehend what, exactly, her sister had been trying to tell her the previous night. Her messages are time-stamped between ten P.M. and midnight, which was around the time Sansa had gotten well and truly sloshed. Clearly Arya had gone the same way but, upon a quick investigation, Sansa is pleased to find that Arya hadn’t actually blocked her number, so she shoots her a quick text to clarify:

 **SANSA** : I’m sure you’d make a spectacular playwright, but your story structure could use some work. I’m not following this at all.

 **ARYA** : oh my god i don’t fuckin know

 **ARYA** : my actual point — aside from my surefire future as the next arthur miller or whoever-the-hell — was that you should look at jon’s facebook feed. you’re ALL UP IN THERE

 **ARYA** : i’d say GIRL GET IT but i bet you a mcdonald’s breakfast that you’ve already got a text from margaery that says the same thing. probably accompanied by a screenshot or several

_Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh godohgodohgodoh—_

Incidentally, Sansa does have a text from Margaery that says precisely what her sister predicted it would, and the aforementioned screenshots to boot. Sansa is too emotionally compromised at the moment to take a good look at the attachment, and Arya’s texted her again besides.

 **ARYA** : i knew you were gonna totally wig out over this and much as i love and esteem you, i feel like i was hit by a truck. last night is THE LAST TIME i try to out-drink renly. i just. i thought he’d be like gendry, y’know, just a fuckin lightweight; i assumed it ran in the family. alas...

 **ARYA** : point is i just don’t have the mental stamina to talk you down from the cliff you’re surely about to walk off rn. so i texted jon as soon as i woke up and he’s on his way over to yours

 **ARYA** : you’re welcome

 _You’re welcome_? Sansa stares at the words as if she’s never seen them before. She almost wants to reply _“‘You’re WELCOME’???? For WHAT?? Necessitating my escape from the country ASAP???”_ but after about half a second’s thought, Sansa decides she doesn’t have time to reply with _anything_ if Jon’s on his way and her hair looks half as bad as she feels.

She jumps in the shower to wash the stench of smoke and ale from her body, courtesy of the pub last night. Jon had been there too, in the early stages of the night, but he, Robb, and Theon had taken off before Sansa could drink enough to blatantly flirt with him. They’d all worked the early shift at the station and were right knackered. Sansa probably should have known better than to keep drinking with Arya, the Tyrells, and Gendry and Renly Baratheon, all the while with Jon on her mind. Too much alcohol and sex talk did not bode well for a Sansa in the throes of a year-long celibacy stint.

It wasn’t _intentional_ celibacy, mind. Sansa had just tired of all her beaus’ half-arsed attempts at romance and barely passable sex. She wasn’t interested in putting in the effort again if she was just going to end up disappointed as usual.

But then Jon Snow had shown up in some kind of whirlwind of testosterone and sensitivity and _really great_ hair. He’d transferred back to Winterfell after working in Hardhome since grad, and the past eight months had brought him closer to Sansa than she ever would have guessed, and yet still not close _enough_.

And by “close enough,” Sansa does of course mean his body on top of hers and his tongue all up in her business.

Not that she’d ever managed the gumption to say any of this to him. _Obviously not._ It’s just… Jon seems too good to be true. He’s thoughtful and attentive; he knows her favourite tea and has on several occasions brought it to her office when he knows she’s having a bad day; he’s fixed the temperamental heater in her flat; and for fuck’s sake, he’s even carried her shopping bags without any sign of fatigue or complaint.

What is she meant to do? _Not_ fall madly, wildly, stupidly in love with him?

Har-har- _hardly_.

If this wasn’t all especially unfair on its own, it certainly doesn’t help that they have loads in common and Jon always looks _so good_ — those untamed curls and that one that always bounces in front of his eyes, that intense grey gaze, the scruff on his finely-drawn face, those broad shoulders and lean hips and how he knows how to dress himself in such a way it makes her sweat like a sinner in church — that Sansa just wants to lick him, possibly and probably everywhere, and —

There’s a sharp knock on the front door, breaking Sansa free of the reverie she’d been about to unashamedly masturbate to. She curses and nearly slips in her haste to get out of the shower. If she didn’t have time to chastise Arya via text, she absolutely did not have time to get herself off when the very object of her fantasies was practically on her doorstep.

Without much time to spare — and fuck it, Jon’s constantly putting Sansa in a state of sexual frenzy, so the least she can do is (hopefully) return the favour — Sansa wraps herself in a bath sheet and nothing else.

“Hey,” she says breezily when she opens the door. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be here so soon.”

It takes a moment for Jon to return her greeting, or to even step foot inside. His eyebrows shoot up and he blinks several times, gaze glued to where she’s tucking the bath sheet more snugly against her chest. He swallows, almost audibly, and pushes his wire-framed specs up his nose in what Sansa recognizes as one of his nervous gestures.

“Hey,” he says quickly when Sansa clears her throat (not that she hadn’t been enjoying his attentions, but she thinks he could be a bit more thorough about them if he’d come inside). He blinks again, and shuts the door behind him with a satisfying _click_. “Yeah, so — Arya told you I was coming, I take it?”

Sansa nods, and accepts the tea he hands her. Of course he’d bring the damn tea — lemon balm, to help her de-stress. Perfect for the occasion, since the way Jon’s looking at her is bound to give her apoplexy at any moment if she doesn’t get her blood pressure under control.

(Is apoplexy even what happens when your blood pressure freaks the fuck out? Sansa wonders. There’s a reason she doesn’t indulge in hospital dramas, and that’s because she never knows what the hell anyone’s talking about. The point is Jon’s looking at her like he’s torn between running away and just completely fucking _wrecking_ her, so maybe he’s on the verge of an apoplectic episode, too.)

“So, um…” Jon digs his phone out of his pocket and grins. “You want to see my notifications feed?”

Sansa groans and stalks off, into the kitchen, leaving Jon to follow or stay at his will. He, of course, follows, probably grinning like a fool the whole time. Sansa doesn’t know for sure, as she refuses to look at him for fear that she’ll drop dead of either embarrassment or orgasm denial, because _no one_ should look as good in a henley, cardigan (a _cardigan_ , for chrissakes), and skinny jeans as this motherfucker does, and yet _here they are_. And she’s in a bath sheet, hair damp and twisted up in pins, with not even the lightest layer of foundation to hide the hangover circles under her eyes.

There is, truly, no justice in this world.

“I’ve got a couple of text messages, too,” Jon continues. Now he’s deliberately laughing at her; he’s trying to hide it, but Sansa’s not an idiot. He’s _enjoying_ this, she can tell, basking in her humiliation; and even when he’s a slut for schadenfreude, Sansa still wants him to take her on the kitchen table.

What is the _matter_ with her?

“It was an accident,” she tells him. She sets her tea on the counter and starts putting away the dishes in the drying rack, just to have something to do. “I sneezed while I was looking at my phone and my body just, you know, convulsed. I’m quite ill, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jon agrees. His chuckle is quiet, but nearer than she expected him to be. The textured material of his shirt brushes against her back, so out-of-the-blue that Sansa can’t suppress her equal parts surprised and delighted shiver. “How else could you comment ‘Damn, Daddy’ on a round dozen of my profile photos, if it weren’t for the sneezing?”

“I did _what_?” Sansa snaps, horrified with herself, as she spins to face him and grabs for his phone. Jon holds it higher, just out of her reach (he’s barely got an inch on her in height, but if Sansa starts wrestling him for his phone she’s definitely going to lose the bath sheet in the process), smirking all the while. “Oh, get that look off your face. I just — it _was_ the sneezing. I — have the flu.”

“The flu doesn’t make you sneeze.”

“Oh, excuse me, _Doctor_.”

“So is it ‘daddy’ or ‘doctor,’ then?” Jon wants to know. He presses those sinfully full lips together to hide his ever-present grin, and Sansa doesn’t know if she’d prefer to smack him or shag him. “If it makes you feel better, though, I liked all the comments. Loved them, actually. You know I never react so enthusiastically to anything on Facebook. I think that’s the first time I used one of the reactions that wasn’t just the ‘Like’ option.”

Sansa points an accusatory finger at him. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not. Theon was, though,” Jon admits. He takes another half-step forward, effectively caging Sansa’s body between his own and the counter, and executed so smoothly that she‘s sure she only noticed because she’s so hypersexually _aware_ of him. “He — what d’you call it? — _haha_ ’d all your comments. Margaery replied with a lot of celebratory gifs. I had to delete Loras’ replies. Not exactly family-friendly. He called me a coward but otherwise seems to be taking the rejection with some good graces.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. What had she gotten herself into? And _why_ was Jon standing so close to her? Does he really expect her to be able to  _think_ when he’s this close and she’s just one bad or bold move away from dropping this bath sheet and letting him do whatever he likes to her?

“God, what, has my mother got anything to say about them, too?” Sansa asks, partly because she’s legitimately worried about this, and partly because mentioning her mother might help douse the fire between her legs a little bit.

But then Jon’s eyes drop to her lips; it’s no more than a millisecond, really, before he’s looking at her straight-on again, but it’s enough to make Sansa ardently wish she’d put on underwear before she answered his knock.

“Not your mum, no.” Jon chuckles again. His breath — mostly mint-fresh, with only the barest hint of coffee underneath — tickles her mouth. “Robb did text me earlier to call me an arse, and Bran wants to know what I’ve done to turn his well-behaved sister into such a shameless harlot.”

“Bran did _not_ call me a harlot.”

“Well I don’t think he _meant_ it, if that helps.”

Sansa all but scowls at him. “Nothing you’re saying has been in the least bit helpful.”

“How about I tell you what you said to me last night, then?” Jon challenges, though Sansa’s not entirely sure what the stakes are just yet. “Not the Facebook comments. Your texts.”

There’s that look in his eye… Sansa had seen it a few times before, when they’d been alone or when she’d dressed specifically to impress, hoping he’d notice and perhaps that look means he _did_. That look that melts her from top to bottom — that unblinking, unyielding _stare_ that darkens with every passing second as his pupils swallow his irises and his gaze swallows _her_.

She doesn’t break what can only be described as their eye-fucking match; but she does swallow, hard, and loses the game in that one show of weakness. He’s got her wrapped around his little finger, and now he _knows_ it.

“I don’t know that I’m emotionally prepared to deal with further humiliation today.”

“Alright.” Jon tosses his phone aside so that it skids across the countertop, not bothering to watch where it’s going as his gaze is too busy eating Sansa alive. “We don’t have to talk about what you said last night. We can talk about what I want this morning instead.”

Sansa doesn’t know what it’s like for one’s brain to short-circuit, but she thinks she may be suffering from such an episode right now. No doubt she would faint, were she not propped up by the counter behind her and Jon in front of her, because he’s talking about what he wants and now his hands are ghosting along her sides as if to tell her _you you you_.

“You wanna know what I like about you?” Jon asks, voice rough and husky. It’s the way he sounds when he’s just woken up, Sansa recalls, only now he’s alert and aware. “About spending time with you?”

His fingertips are on her wrists. It’s the lightest brush, but Sansa is sure he must feel the jump in her pulse. But perhaps if he did, he’d take some pity on her; and if his next words are any indication, pity’s the last thing she’s getting.

“You’re always _touching_ me,” Jon breathes, and his hands trail up her arms. “I like just about everything about you, Sansa — you’re clever and sweet and _constant_ — but it’s the touching that gets to me. It makes me want to touch you back —”

Sansa’s breath catches when he sweeps his thumb across her collarbone. “You’re touching me right now,” she points out, somewhat stupidly, to her mind, but Jon doesn’t begrudge her of her clearly addled state.

“But I shouldn’t, should I?” His tone would be conversational, if not for how low it had dropped (Sansa _definitely_ should have found a moment to put on her panties, dear _god_ ).

His hands span her shoulders, then slip to trace the curve of her waist over the bath sheet, calloused palms dragging against the material and making her skin tingle beneath it. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? I shouldn’t be touching you like this. But you’re always getting away with it.”

Sansa begs to differ. If she could get away with anything, she certainly would have touched him the way he’s teasing her now, and then some.

“I don’t touch you like this.” She’s not at all surprised that her voice is just as hoarse as his.

“Sansa —” Jon laughs, soft and forced, and shakes his head. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing half the time you’re doing it.”

“Thanks,” she says, her tone far more dry than she is at the moment.

“ _Not_ what I meant.” Jon cups the side of her neck with one hand while the other rubs her hip. Her skin sparks and her nerves hum, and surely she’s on the verge of spontaneous combustion when Jon keeps talking and his hands keep roaming. “You know that way you hitch your legs over my lap when we’re watching something on TV? I can’t breathe when you do that. Or when you put your head on my shoulder when you’re tired, and I can smell your hair, and all I wanna do is wake up to that smell, with your hair in my face. Because I don’t think anything smells so good as your hair, Sansa — except maybe here…”

 _Oh, Seven save me —_ Sansa moans when Jon’s hand slips over her, teasing her pussy as he’d been teasing her, with barely-there touches that left her more satisfied than the way anyone’s touched her before.

“Oh my god…” Jon mutters in her ear as his hand brushes her once, twice, and then cups her and she thrusts her hips against him, wanting more more _more_ —

Jon pulls back, just enough to look at her, to run his hands back up her arms. She whimpers at the loss of friction and he gulps, their chests undulating against one another as they take deep, almost painful breaths to collect themselves, all to no avail.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything. This. Not at first.” He intertwines their fingers, for only a moment, only long enough to press a kiss to Sansa’s palm that drives her wild. “But I — I can’t pretend that what you said to me doesn’t matter. And I love being your friend, Sansa, I do, but _this_ — fuck —”

The words shudder forth on his sharp, unsteady exhale, and he frames her face in his hands.

“I think we should ruin the friendship,” he says, voice low and eyes solemn, just before he kisses her.

It happens in a quick, restless frenzy — his teeth on her bottom lip, her tongue seeking his — and Sansa has never tasted anything so good as Jon Snow’s almost-coffee breath groans.

His touch isn’t teasing anymore, but purposeful and sure, with a destination in mind and that destination is every part of Sansa he can get to. He traces her earlobe, her jaw, and kisses her harder, deeper, and her back digs painfully into the counter’s edge but it’s such a delicious ache that it only makes Sansa sigh his name.

He palms her tits through the bath sheet and quickly grows frustrated with the material. Tearing his mouth away from hers, he tugs at the sheet and growls, “Off. Take it off.”

“In the _kitchen_?” Sansa says, aghast, although who is she kidding, she’s fantasized far worse than being naked in her kitchen with a fully-clothed Jon. She’s only taken off-guard; who knew Jon had the ability to crawl into the deepest, darkest corners of her mind and make her dirty dreams a reality?

“In the kitchen,” he asserts, just as he succeeds in undoing the knot and the sheet falls with a soft _thwump!_ at their entangled feet.

Jon blinks again, just as he had when she’d answered the door in a state of near-undress. But now his hair is a mess and his specs are askew, and in Sansa’s very humble opinion his flushed cheeks are quite a nice addition to the scruff he hadn’t bothered to shave in a week.

“Jesus fucking —” Jon’s voice is strangled, his breath coming in such short, forceful spurts that it’s almost as though he’d sprinted through a marathon rather than kiss Sansa silly against her kitchen counter.

Then again, she’s naked now, so Sansa thinks that might have something to do with it.

His mouth is back on hers in a flash, hands tearing at the pins in her hair so it falls into his delightfully greedy, waiting grasp. He shoves one of his legs between hers and bucks upwards, encouraging her to ride his denim-clad thigh — an invitation she accepts readily, eagerly.

“You told me you wanted this,” Jon mumbles as he sucks at a spot just beneath her jaw. “You told me, last night, you said you wanted me to get you naked and use my tongue on you. _All_ of you,” he adds, and licks behind her ear for emphasis. “Just reading your texts, god, Sansa, thinking about you wanting this from me got me so hard I could barely walk over here this morning.”

“What else did I say?” Sansa wants to know as she takes his earlobe between her teeth and sucks, hard, making Jon groan and bite down on her skin. She wants to know, needs to know, because if the rest of her drunken texts were that good, then she’ll never think poorly of her hangovers ever again.

_Worth it._

“You said you wanted me.” At this, Jon stoops to hook his arms around her thighs and hoist her up onto the counter. He replaces the friction of his thigh with his fingers, massaging her folds and circling her clit.

“ _Oooh, fuck_ me —” Sansa gasps, spurring him on.

“God, Sansa, I can’t tell you — can’t _fucking_ tell you —” Jon presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the swell of her breasts as he works at her between her legs — “how much it turns me on that it’s me who gets you talking like this. I’ve never seen you lose control, it makes me wanna muss you up, sweetheart —”

He slips one finger inside of her, then another, and pumps vigorously while his thumb keeps attention at her clit. Sansa might feel further embarrassment at how eagerly she meets his movements with her own, but he’s so _good_ she couldn’t contain herself if she tried. And it doesn’t seem as though Jon wants her to.

“That’s it, Sansa, darling.” Jon plucks small, sweet kisses from her panting mouth. “You wanna know what else you told me last night? About how much you want me, and how you hope I want you the same way? How you fuck everything up but you don’t want to ruin us? Sweetheart, you couldn’t ruin us if you _tried_.”

Sansa wants to say something, she wants to _think_ something, but she can’t find any sort of purchase when Jon is touching her and moaning, murmuring, exciting and soothing her in equal measure.

While his left hand brings her to orgasm — all bursts of stars and white lights and his warm breath on her skin — Jon’s free one cups the back of her head and he whispers in her ear, “You’re _everything_ I’ve ever wanted, Sansa, and you couldn’t make me leave you unless you sent me away.”

He kisses her again, gently, coaxing, and still she whimpers into it, clutching at his curls as if he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

 _Fucking hell_ , but that was good.

Sansa comes down from her high while Jon’s rubbing circles on her thighs, waiting patiently for her to regain some semblance of consciousness before they reach the main event, as it were. She’d entertained a brief fantasy of Jon taking her on the kitchen table, but Sansa supposes the countertop will do just as well.

But when Jon leaves his jeans buttoned and sinks to his knees in front of her, she’s not so sure what he’s on about anymore.

His hands are sweeping up her calves when she looks down, blinking not so much in lust or any sort of sexual excitement as she is in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “You said you wanted me to use my tongue on you.”

“I —” Sansa scrunches her nose in thought. It sounds like something she’d say, certainly, especially in such an inebriated state, but whether she expected him to follow through on such a request is another matter entirely — _“oh.”_

She doesn’t have time to examine it further, or to pester Jon with a barrage of questions, as the man himself apparently doesn’t have the time to spare on such technicalities. He tugs her to the counter’s edge, and buries his face in her cunt like it’s all he’s thought about doing since they reconnected eight months ago.

(The real secret is that it’s _precisely_ what he’s been thinking about since they reconnected eight months ago. And when his mouth’s not so busy making her come, he’ll tell her so. For the time being, though…)

He swipes his tongue up her slit once, then clamps his mouth over her and sucks, twirls, _feasts_ upon her, moaning his appreciation all the while like nothing’s ever tasted so good to Jon Snow as Sansa Stark’s cunt.

Part of Sansa thinks this shouldn’t necessarily surprise her; she had, after all, nearly come undone with nothing but his coffee breath in her mouth, so why shouldn’t Jon lose his head when he goes down on her? Aside from the fact that she’s not accustomed to such attention before, but Jon’s not quite like any man she’s ever met, so it stands to reason that he’d put her first.

It is, honest to god, no wonder at all why she’d gone crazy for him from the start.

 _“Mmmm —”_ Jon groans into his ministrations. His forearms hold her under the knees, bringing her flush against his mouth, hands kneading her naked flesh. “So good, Sansa, honey, you’re so good —”

When his fingers join his tongue, Sansa’s toes curl and her back arches. Her hands dive into his hair and he growls between her thighs — _pull it, go on, there’s my girl, show me you want me_ — and nothing has ever felt like this, with Jon’s hands all over her and his tongue working her up while he tells her he wants her any which way, _every_ way —

He’d shown up at her doorstep with nothing but the intention to please her — never mind all the teasing, Sansa thinks she could take any manner of humiliation if it ends with Jon on his knees in front of her — and just the thought has Sansa reeling, coming, and effectively ruining their friendship, but good, because she’ll never be able to stop herself from jumping him at every available opportunity now.

“So,” Jon says through a few panting breaths as he straightens between her legs He palms her tits again and kisses her cheek, grinning when she slings her legs around his hips and tugs him close. “You wanna be more than friends, or did I just royally fuck everything?”

“Uh-uh.” Sansa shakes her head emphatically and gets to work on his neck. She’s got hickeys all down her throat, and it’s time she returns the favour. “I’ve got plans for you, Jon, and you’re gonna make an honest woman out of me.”

Jon has — understandably and unsurprisingly — no complaints regarding Sansa’s terms, and he’s got no qualms about spending the rest of the day proving that to her, either.

 

* * *

 

**JON SNOW is in a relationship with SANSA STARK**

_64 likes  
12 comments_

**THEON** **GREYJOY** : damn, daddy

 **ROBB STARK** : aaaaaaaaaaaarse

 **BRAN STARK** : I, for one, am relieved.

 **LORAS TYRELL** : At the risk of being silenced YET AGAIN by Jon’s puritan values, let me just say: fuckin’ F I N A L L Y.

 **MARGAERY TYRELL** : After what I walked in on this afternoon? “Puritan values” is THE LAST phrase you’d think to attribute to Jon Snow.

 **ROBB STARK** : **@Jon Snow** AAAAAAAAAARSE

 **ARYA STARK** : congrats, jon. sansa could still do better. but like. kudos to you for getting that pussy on lockdown before she could come to her senses

 **THEON GREYJOY** : ^^^ LMAO BURN

 **SANSA STARK** : Jon and I were perfectly willing to sever our own friendship for the sake of some of the best makeout sessions of my young life. Don’t think we won’t cut the rest of you off for much, much less.

 **JON SNOW** : Thanks, love. ;) :*

 **ARYA STARK** : …did jon just use emoticons

 **ROBB STARK** : BOOOOOOOO


End file.
